You have finally arrived! Might not be the final destination, but it’s certainly one worth gawping at on the way there.

Several sleek long ships sit at the docks. They're not, it appears, an entire flotilla, but the elves aboard them assure you that the rest are not far away at all. But these are not the humble rafts you are familiar with from visits by Partager. These are, in fact, actual honest-to-Calestros ships.

This is Envoyer, and these ships are seaworthy. You had not seen any such thing before.

Past this display, a tiny settlement of Stone warehouses and piers… Ektennial, apparently, is it’s name… is the starting point of a long, winding road, partially laid with perfectly shaped stone cobbles, partially composed of just beaten dirt paths, but ultimately all leading up to the penultimate destination… the Stairway to Eparchy. Which is actually a large series of switch-backed ramps, but ‘Ramp to Eparchy’ is somewhat lacking in pizazz. While the Crag cannot boast of any complicated system of pulleys and levers to transport guests to the mountainous heights, they do have a large complement of beasts of burden, predominantly oxen, to ferry any who did not bring their own up to Eschaton proper.

Along the ‘Stairway’, fierce looking Aggro warriors stand guard at regular intervals, guiding the path, and protecting the guests from any danger that may be lurking in the skies or boulders of the surrounding mountainside. Climbing higher and higher, the air becomes colder, drier, thinner… not enough to be a trouble, of course, apart from some ear popping… but before long, signs of civilization (of a sort) begin to reappear. Starting with… music?

Audible before even reaching the top, it is an energetic piece, full of drums and horns, stony percussion and strings, and even the faint hint of vocals. This melody swells as the precipice is reached, revealing… Eparchy.

Looks okay.

A Precipitous Potluck

As befits the Crag, the construction of the settlement is almost entirely made of slabs of fitted stone; while wood and iron make an appearance among the construction, the architecture, the streets, and even the lightposts are all made of shaped and molded stone. While much of it has a brutalist functionality to it’s design, one part in particular has had aesthetics heaped high; in particular, the place where various Aggro guards are currently herding everybody.

A tall wall, designed more for decoration than for function, surrounds a full quarter of the settlement, and within this engraving-encrusted enclosure are numerous examples of architectural artistry; numerous hostels and lodges waiting to accommodate weary merchants, dotted with small gardens and accessible by decorated roads. And at the center of all, a massive open plaza, dominated by a sizable circular pagoda. Within said pagoda is the source of the music; dozens of burly Crag working instruments of all shapes and sizes to produce the melodic tones. Surrounding the Pagoda are numerous stone tables and accompanying benches, although a small number of wooden chairs appear to have been provided as an afterthought. Atop several of the tables are examples of Crag culinary arts; Rye Cakes, Rye Mash, Lentil Soups, Ox Jerky, Roasted Taproots, Croquettes stuffed with egg and meat, Fruits both fresh and preserved, Small rock candies made into festive shapes like Hearts and Stars, and something that looks almost, but not quite, like baked potatoes. A true smorgasbored.

Among the tables not piled high with foodstuffs, a number of Crag of varying shapes, sizes, and garb sit, idly chatting. One of these is the Crag who, for worse, has become one of the most frequently seen of all his kind; The First Among Scholars, Renyan Elematich, who appears to be engaged in a start-and-stop conversation with The Layer of the Path, Slabal Nanockova.

“-well, by any measure, it is a wonder that you have constructed here, Layer,” The First says as he gestures all around him. “You’ve really outdone yourself.“

Slabal considers that statement for a moment before responding. “I do not believe that to be the case. Indeed, the statement seems… untenable. This area was designed at my capacity to do so, not beyond it.”

The First does a little grimace. “Ah, well, it’s actually a Lowlander expression… It means that one has ‘performed above expectations’.”

“Thus, it was expected that I would underperform in this regard?” Her tone and expression remain level, which is more than can be said for The First.

“N-No! Of course not! It’s... “ He searches for the right words… or, for an opportunity to escape.

“- Have you know that Master Grafi used to make us climb the stairs to the temple ten times every morning with a bucket of water over each shoulder, and if we spilled a drop we had to start over! And that was at much higher altitude than this. I’m not so decrepit that I can’t handle stairs!” Grandmaster Indrek’s lighthearted complaints drift across the pagoda.

“Yes, Grandfather, and that was three hundred years ago,” Siiri replies wearily.

“More like five,” Terje coughs under his breath.

The three blade elves arrive, the healer and quartermaster flanking the grandmaster as he uses his sheathed sword like a cane. Siiri is helping his other arm, and Ehra is wearing slightly warmer robes than his last appearance. Ehra and Siiri move to add their plate of various potato-based goods to the pile.

Terje breaks off and heads towards Slabal and First. He’s wearing his formal dress uniform and armor, with an interesting addition: A mithral ring on a fine chain around his neck. He steps up to Slabal with a smile.

“Hey, Slabal,” he relieves First jovially, “Still accomplishing your objectives to your satisfaction?”

Slabal blinks a couple times, staring at Terje, and takes a moment before responding. “Ah. Quartermaster. I believe greetings are in order. You are welcomed to Eparchy.” She takes a thin sip of what seems to be water from a stoneware cup. “As to your question… no.”

The First, thankful to have been pulled from an awkward situation, but frustrated that he was not addressed first, takes this opportunity to unfold himself from the stone bench, greeting the Blade Elves at full height… for what it’s worth. “Ah, Greetings, honored dignitaries of the Blades! May I commend you on being the first to make yourselves known. Please! Partake in consumption, as is common in this celebration!”

Siiri gives an exhausted sigh.

"Certainly!" Ehra smiles warmly at First, "I admit, I am excited. I haven't tasted Crag cuisine before, not to mention I've never seen a crag town. I savor every new experience these days, as they're quite few and far between."

Ehra pauses, then reaches for one of the croquettes.

The First smiles, managing to make it look suspicious somehow. “Of course, Grand Master of the Blades. If it is experience you crave, then here in Eparchy, you shall find your fill; the finest minds and hands of the Crag have customized this district explicitly for that purpose. I trust it is satisfying to your L- to your sensibilities?” He spares a glance toward Slabal, who observes events with her standard stare.

Ehra munches on the croquette before answering.

"Most definitely," he replies after finishing a bite.

Terje glances around the pagoda then looks to Slabal.

"Thank you for the welcome, Layer," he nods, "Always looking to accomplish more, huh?"

"That is accurate. There is always more that needs to be accomplished. It is my hope that in time, necessity and rate of completion will close to parity, rather than the current run-away state.” She takes another small sip.

“Yeah, you and me both,” Terje retrieves a similar cup before returning to standing next to her, “In the meantime? You did good.”

Slabal makes an affirmative hand gesture. “To hear that said from an Otherelf does reassure me to its veracity. I hope it will appeal to the others as well.” Sip.

Conveniently, ramps are easy for therapy hippopotami to climb. Sauver, Litoria, and Smilisca arrive, though they had not been around before now, and they bring with them a large quantity of prepared fish for the table of shared food. The two cousins are bickering in Sylvan in a friendly tone.

Seeing more guests arrive, The First is quick to respond. Excusing himself from his current conversation, he intercepts the River elves… although is bravado quails a little in the face of Sauver’s… hipponess.

“Ah, and welcome to you, honored dignitaries of the Rivers! I trust you have brought a sufficient quantity of food as painful as it is piscine?” In spite of hippo hesitance, he alights a practiced smile.

"Weh," Smilisca replies, "I recalled you done seemed 't like em hot hot, me."

Litoria stifles a laugh.

Terje excuses himself from his conversation and quietly goes to stand next to Smilisca with a smile.

Several winged elves glide into view, slowly circling the Pagoda before coming to land in a clear space not far from the tables. Shadimon and Dhakamari are in the lead, with Shrike and Baijani behind them. Shadimon and Dhakamari are carrying a loaded net between them, and Shrike and Baijani each have a colorful bundle wrapped to their chests. As they approach the tables, Baijani takes one side of the net from Shadimon and hands him the bundle. “All yours. He’s been kicking my ribs for the past hour now,” her cheerful voice carries to the others.

Baijani and Dhakamari head to the table to unload their offerings: another heaping basket of dumplings, and Shadimon approaches the river, blade, and crag elves. His dignity is slightly damaged by a small disagreement with the baby, which results in him getting punched in the jaw. “Good to see everyone, as usual.” He nods politely toward First and Slabal, “Thank you for hosting, we’re happy to be here.”

On the Stairway to Eparchy is a carriage, flanked on its sides by two outriders -- one masked and armored, the other tattoo'd.

Inside the carriage is an argument.

"She'd be safer on the boat," the Hunger says, looking first at Fury, and then at the young elf sitting next to her.

Fury shakes her head. "I'm not leaving her alone. And it will be good for her to get a chance to talk to the others. Meet new people."

"Yes," the Hunger says. "Like Echo."

"Well if your disguise works, that won't be a problem, will it?" Fury says hotly.

"He's not the only elf I'm concerned about. And the Crag, in general, will be dangerous to her if they find out." Hunger paused. "I'm not going to argue you shouldn't bring her. I want you aware of the risks."

Fury sighs. "I am aware, thank you, and--"

"Oh hey! There's Dhak!" Vita says, leaning out the window and looking upward.

Fury blinks. "Wolfcrap; almost missed my window." She gives the top of the carriage a quick knock. "Cassius, this is my stop."

There is a loud cackling from somewhere above the passenger compartment, and the carriage pulls to a stop.

Fury shoves the door open and takes a few steps outside. Large wings of multicolored flame pour from her back. She leaps into the air, darting after the passing Winged Elves, and over the walls into Eparchy.

Shadimon breaks off in midsentence as all four winged elves look up. “Is that…??”

The First gets as far as “W-” in his spiel to the Winged elves before he, too, cranes his head in astonishment.

Furthermore, it seems he’s not the only Crag to take notice. On opposite sides of Eparchy, two sturdy doors open, as two more Aggro enter the district. On one side is Embebi, who seems to be watching the flaming entity with a mixture of concern and curiosity, and is moving towards the central Pagoda to suss out what it is. On the other side is the Echo of Blood… who simply scowls, and seems content to keep his distance.

In spite of the distraction, however, the ‘band’ keeps playing.

The dread wizard Smilisca uses the distraction to stealthily sneak a kiss from Terje. There might be a small giggle.

Fury twirls through the air, gliding neatly over the walls before coming to a vertical hover and dropping neatly into place in front of First and Slabal, a few steps to Shadimon's right. "Good morning!" she says, giving both a quick curtsey. "Eparchy is lovely -- especially from the air!"

Shadimon stares and gestures uselessly for a moment, “That...you...that’s new.”

The First just stares for a moment, dumbfounded. Slabal, however, responds phlegmatically.

“I have been informed of such. It is gratifying that it meets the standards of multiple varieties of Otherelf.”

A little ways away, Embebi now seems satisfied that no one’s going to start burning the place down, and starts moving back… only to be distracted by the dishes left by the others, in particular the Blade’s offerings. Shrugging, she stops for a moment to indulge in the starchy treat.

"It's new for me, too," Fury says to Shadimon. She shakes her shoulders, and the wings disappear in a wave of technicolor smoke. "I lost a few dresses figuring out how they work. Flying's hard."

“It definitely is,” Shrike says, leaning past Shadimon’s shoulder. “Are the others with you, or is it just you this year?”

"They're still on the Stairway," Fury said. "But we've brought the whole gang -- Terror, Hunger, Vita, Breaker, and umm… Lucinia. She's a young elf I've… we've had some troubles in Surt recently, and long story short, she's a kid, and she's not in a great place, so I brought her along too. But yeah, they're on the way up."

The First finally seems to have gotten his thoughts in order. “...What was that? It doesn’t resemble any form of Arcane Formula that I’m familiar with… is this another capability of your kind?”

Fury shrugs, and gives the First an uncertain grin. "I have no idea. It just kind of happened, really."

The First gives Fury this look. His mouth opens a little… then closes. And then repeats that procedure twice more.

Then, he turns to face Shadimon again. “Welcome to Eparchy, dignitaries of the Winged. I hope your flight to these heights was not overly tiring.” He sounds like he’s lost some of the energy he had before.

“Heights at least we can handle,” Shadimon says with a slight smile. He nods again before turning to the others, “Litoria, Ehra, how have you all been?”

"Oh, just fine!" Ehra smiles, "Things have been going well at Alfyr, despite Smilisca's continuing plot to steal my quartermaster."

Shrike steps up to Ehra, pulling back the blanket she’s carrying to reveal a tiny face. “The party last year was just a little too early. Ehra, meet Kailash. Shadi has Davarash.”

"Oh my goodness!" Ehra practically beams as he pokes the tiny baby's nose playfully, "Twins?"

“I know! I still can’t quite believe it.” She glances at Fury, “Is Breaker with your group this year? I know she was up your way.”

The mention of twins causes The First’s eyebrows to arch. However, he keeps his tongue, for now at least.

Fury nods. "She and Terror are riding up together." She steps over to Shrike and Ehra, and peeks into the bundle at the tiny elf-potato. “Aww, someone’s cute.”

“And someone knows it,” Shadimon says wryly. “They both do, and they tag-team to get what they want. But at least they also entertain each other. Sort of. They don’t do much yet, still.” One of his ears flicks back to the wall, hearing hoofbeats and carriage wheels approaching.

The Surtian delegation’s carriage rolls up to the pagoda, and the driver -- a hunchbacked Fire Elf with wild grey hair and a crazed expression on his face -- hops off the top and crabwalks up to the door. “Announcing,” he says, cackling. “Smoke and H--”

Vita kicks the door open, smacking the driver neatly in the face. “Yep, that’s us!” she says, stepping past the driver and walking straight over to Dhakamari. “Hey Dhak!”

Hunger and Barry file out behind her, trailed by an adolescent Fire Elf with black hair and a generally downcast expression.

The driver coughs. “Hunger, and… Leafstorm,” he says dramatically, before trotting to the front of the carriage, and leading the horses over to one side.

Coming up behind the carriage on two more horses are Terror and Breaker, the former of whom slides off her mount and leads her over to the carriage driver.

Hunger heads straight for the First, giving both him and Slabal a quick bow. “Your switchback design is highly efficient,” he says. “What’s your estimate on its longevity? I’ve got a good idea on what we’d do in a similar situation, and I’ll admit I’m curious.”

Barry, meanwhile, walks up to the group gathered around Shadimon and Kailash. “Ehra, Fury, Shadimon,” he says, smiling.

Fury ignores him.

The First gives the Hunger a probing look, collecting his thoughts, as Slabal responds to his query.

“As the current design is only a preliminary pass, it is unlikely it would remain functional, without regular maintenance, for more than half a millenia. It will be possible to improve on the design by providing appropriate spacers and replacing certain natural stretches with full fitted ones. It is another project I am anticipating.”

The First then butts in. “Of course, hearing your approach would be… enlightening, Hunger. Oh, and I should also extend my greetings to you, as the…” he glances over at Fury and Barry… “Dignitaries of the Fires. I do hope displays like that will come with some notice, now that you are here? It would not do to further… unsettle matters.” His voice carries a warning tone to it.

Hunger nods. “I would be more than happy to discuss it, with both of you. As for the display…” he gives Fury a sideways glance. “I apologize if that caused any disruption. It’s something of a new development -- and one I should have anticipated, but biothaumatic spellcasters such as The Fury can be unpredictable at the best of time. For all I know, this is the morphogenic equivalent of ‘sorceress puberty’.”

The First shoots Hunger a level stare. “ ‘Biothaumatic.’ ” It’s not technically a question, but there is a disbelieving tone to the statement.

“Our term for spell users whose point-of-magical-origin appears to be internal, rather than external as you would see in bards and wizards,” Hunger says, pointedly ignoring the First’s tone. “Having never seen her pick up a spellbook or other arcane source, my hypothesis has been that she is a biothaumatic caster of some type. Probably dragon-derived, or similar. You’re welcome to ask her on it… but if I were to guess, her response will be something like ‘No idea, dearie, I’m far too busy playing princess to make a rational analysis of my magical power’.” He’s surprisingly good at imitating her accent.

In spite of the fact that he’s attempting to be all-business, The First does quirk a smile at the imitation. “That… did seem to be the crux of her explanation, yes. Though I was rather expecting that such a display would be part and parcel of the unusual Thaumic origin of your peoples. After all, if there’s any Draconic lineage there…” ,glance that isn’t as quick as it should be, “...It is very faint, indeed. Unless the mask covers some reptilian features?”

Hunger shakes his head, and sighs quietly. “Not that I recall, but I have only seen her without it once, and my recollection of that moment is heavily obfuscated. Maybe Celestial of some variety or another? ...That could explain a lot, honestly.”

From her position by Ehra and Shadimon, Fury points a finger at both Hunger and First and mutters something to herself. A thin curl of smoke pours from her fingertip. “I can hear both of you, you know,” Fury’s voice says, from about a foot between the two scholars. “I’m not a lab specimen, so knock it off.”

“Her disdain for scholarly pursuits, for example,” Hunger says, deliberately ignoring her.

The First, however, does not ignore her, instead shooting her an annoyed glance. “Well, if you resent our discussion, then perhaps could you enlighten us with something more informative than ‘Just Happened’?” Somehow, his voice gets even more nasally and piercing when he raises it.

“No,” Fury’s voice continues. “Because that’s private. And it did just kind of happen. So there.”

The First’s brow furrows further. “Well, then if you can provide nothing constructive, then perhaps at least you could prevent yourself from being obstru-”

His mouth then clamps shut, and he gets this expression that telegraphs his ongoing struggles with diplomatic behavior.

“...Perhaps later,” he concludes.

The adolescent fire elf from the carriage walks cautiously up to the Fury, keeping Fury between the rest of the crowd and herself.

Terror and Breaker, meanwhile, head up to Ehra and the baby observation group. "Ehra," Terror rumbles.

"Ah, Terror!" Ehra smiles, "Looming been going well lately?"

Breaker snorts laugh behind Terror.

Terror nods. "Very well," she says cautiously, while looming. "How's being old?"

"It's a wash," Ehra sighs, "Sure it beats the alternative, but I should have read the fine print. Dragons, now, they have the right idea. Just get bigger! Should have gone with that."

"Why do you think I stick with looming?" Terror says mildly. "Draconic Presence takes practice."

Breaker laughs and punches Terror in the shoulder with a clunk.

Another teenage girl? Smilisca thinks to himself, and opts to continue enjoying this opportunity to visit with Terje instead of seeking out Fury for commiseration.

"Slabal, these walls are shore impressive an I'd real appreciate hearin more about this road. What process do yall use to calculate them placement of expansion joints in them pavers, weh?"

A highly technical discussion follows. It is powerful dull.

Litoria leans against the hippo and eyes the Aggro warily.

While various technical conversations are going on, Shrike has been quietly bouncing the baby. Her eyes track over to Terror, and then past her to Breaker. She considers for a moment, nods to herself, and walks over to them. “Heard you’ve both had an exciting few seasons.”

"Yeah, though I've been sitting on my ass since we rescued la Loba," Breaker snorts, "Been lots of fireworks, though."

“Yeah…” Shrike glances over her shoulder at Fury, “I see that. So...I’ve got a weird question for you.”

"Yeah?" Breaker's eyebrows tweak up, "Well ask it."

“I don’t know how Vaquero families work, but as far as we’re concerned, you ought to be part of ours.” She slants a glance up at Terror, “No need for that to impinge on any other plans you’ve got.”

"Uh…" Breaker's eyebrows go up significantly more, "... what?"

“We haven’t heard any of you talking much about your families, but I assume you have aunts, uncles, friends, who don’t live with you but are still part of it?” She adjusts the blanket on the baby and holds him out, “Here, do something with your hands.”

Breaker briefly looks slightly relieved, then extremely concerned as she has handed the infant. She holds completely stock still as the infant babbles up at her.

"Uh… I mean, si yeah, there's… aunts and uncles, cousins, godparents and stuff… what are you asking?"

“Stick around, be a friend, visit sometimes. Godparents...I’ve heard that, but I’m not entirely sure what it means. For us, ‘crazy aunt’ would probably be just as accurate. Would also be interested in sleeping with you, but,” she bows in Terror’s direction, “Some people aren’t keen on that, which is fine.”

"Not really," Terror rumbles, eyeing Breaker.

Breaker seems to be processing several things. During that process, Kailash makes various syllables and grasps in Breaker's general direction.

"Un momento, si?" She asks the baby.

"Fwap," replies Kailash.

"I dunno," Breaker looks back up at Terror, "I like 'em crazy, and she has tits now. I don't like waitin' around, either. You thinkin' you're-"

Terror pulls the mask from her face and kisses Breaker, before she can so much as blink. The only one quick enough to react is Ehra, who deftly scoops Kailash back into his arms with a smirk.

Terror leans in close, her hand dropping to Breaker's hip. After a second, she pulls back. "That answer your question?"

"Si," Breaker is a bit wide eyed, "Madre Diosa… Espanta… you're beautiful."

Terror pulls back, and runs a hand over her own cheek. "You're too kind… I know the scars are still pretty nasty. I… don't exactly take this thing off to check often, but… flesh doesn't recover from that much damage."

"Espanta…" Breaker says quietly, "What scars?"

Terror gives Breaker a puzzled look. "The ones on my… Kiara, I had most of my face chewed off by a werewolf. Cal's breath, are they so bad you won't even tell me?"

Breaker reaches out and gently touches Terror's face.

"Not so much as a scratch, Espanta."

Terror blinks. Several times. Her hand ends up on Breaker's. "...What."

"You ain't short on drama either, are you?" Breaker smirks.

"Not to rush," Ehra comments from where he has positioned himself between the pair and the rest of the crowd, "But people are gawping."

"...And apparently I need a mirror," Terror says, straightening back up.

Ehra isn’t wrong. While he’s trying to be discreet about it, The First is watching ongoing events with a… well, it’s not a polite look, that’s for sure. Embebi and Slabal notice, but pay it little mind. But, well across the plaza, Echo… looks a little bit nonplussed. He continues sulking in the back, however.

Terror seems to finally notice that Ehra is still standing right there, though thankfully facing away from her. She slips her mask back on, and glances at Breaker. "Want to continue this elsewhere?"

"Fuck yes," Breaker laughs and looks back at Shrike, "Hey, thanks hermana, I've been trying to get her to do that for fucking nine months."

Shrike grins and winks, “You’re welcome. But think about the family thing and get back to me.”

"Yeah…" Breaker's tone is slightly more serious, "I will. Promise, si? Pues, I think I got plans for the moment."

Shrike turns to Ehra, “Not what I intended, but probably better in the long run. And thank you for being quicker and not letting them squish my baby, grandfather.”

“In warfare, you must remain open to changes in the battlefield and remain ready to exploit them,” Ehra quotes his own writing while offhandedly playing with the baby, then turns to Terror, “Speaking of, good initiative there, soldier.”

Shrike gives a formal blade elf bow, “‘Constant vigilance’. Jaakob would have an opinion for me, I’m sure.”

Terror rolls her eyes. "Should have really been in the codex," she says, voice gravelly like a whole quarry.

“There are some things you just can’t plan for,” Ehra shrugs as the baby wiggles, causing him to glance down, “Oh my goodness, look at those little wings!”

Though there are Crag other than the recognizable ones in the Plaza, most of them have kept mostly to themselves, observing from a distance. One, however, a somewhat unassuming looking man with straight, dark blue hair, has been sort of flitting in and out of the periphery of the ongoing conversations. It seems, however, that he has chosen now as his time to strike, in spite of the hesitance on his face.

With halting motions, he approaches Smilisca, but then pauses again, waiting for a pause in the conversation. Just kind of hovering there awkwardly, when he finally strikes, he speaks with all the confidence he has demonstrated so far.

“...E-Excuse me. Ehem. Apologies if I have assumed wrong, but, er… oh, and my apologies for interrupting… but… well, based on your… thaumic aura, I’d assume you are… Smilisca, of the Rivers?” Unfortunately, he pronounces it sort of wrong.

“Weh?” Smilisca looks a little confused at this halting introduction. “Mais qui?Who?”

“Weh, mas qui. Right” He mutters to himself, translating. “Uh, Yes. So. Introductions. I am Scholar D- Scholar Savant Drivel. I am a Scholar of Low- err, Other… No, in this case, Lowland Esoterica would be appropriate… And, would I be incorrect to assume that, as an arcanist of some note among your people… Or, really, the only one I know of, sorry… that you would be someone who would know about… well, the history of your peoples?” He seems to have a little bit of difficulty making eye contact.

“Lil’ bit.” Smilisca shrugs. “Whatchu need knowin?”

“Erm…” he pauses. “Well, lots of things, to be fully honest. As much as would be possible, eventually, although of course I do not wish to absorb too much of your time, if you are otherwise employed. Err. Celebrating, not employed. Uhm. But, well, if there was one salient point… and I’ll admit, this may be a bit of a deep point to start from, so I apologize if it causes any, err, consternation… but I was sort of wondering… do you know… when your people… Uh… well, for lack of a better explanation, became Rivers?”

“You mean af’er the Shatter, weh?” Smilisca looks concerned. He’s not as good at telling that one as some other people are.

Drivel actually looks a little relieved. “Er, yes, the ‘Shatter’! I believe that is the right term for that. Would you happen to know, well, why… and, kinda more importantly, when… that happened?”

“Mais la! You weren’t kiddin’ bout this bein’ a small question, were you, non?” Smilisca scratches his beard thoughtfully. “Unfortunate like, we ain’t got a specific date to stick a number on it, non. Mais, what we do know, issat in most reckonings, it done happened when the Goddess Calestros tried t’git true Immortality fer all us elves, an that were somethin’ that ain’t supposed’a be. We cain’t really say if that were for true, but that’s a question of faith more’en fact, non?”

Drivel draws his lips together into a thin line. “...Yes, I have seen that reported in, well, what has already been collected… and, of course, I do understand if there’s not really precise knowledge to it, it has been many, many generations, after all. But… well, actually, that would be a good starting point, even if the specific timing isn’t known… Like, roughly kinda how many generations ago your people, well, started considering themselves to be… well, Rivers, and not something else? Or, if there’s some kind of lore about what caused that kind of… subracial shift?” He sounds like he’s grasping at straws.

Smilisca sighs. He guesses that there’s nothing else for it. Might as well tell it.

“So how we tell it, in them days right after the Shatter when all them elves were still learnin’ how things done changed, Boudreaux and Thibodeaux built themselves a pirogue and went out on the river for a spell. They spent the day a fishin’ and a drinkin’ and they done lost sight of the way they come. Both Boudreaux an Thibodeaux got themselves ass-lost.

Now, they both know they was ass-lost, so they got to arguin bout it an pass some words between them that they shoulda never said. An while they arguin’ their pirogue keep on a followin’ the current. Rivers, by habit, done always flow naturally to the sea where the water is all salty an yall can’t even drink it.

Boudreaux an Thibodeaux quit their arguin’ and began to fight ‘bout how they gon’ get back up the river to go home now. Thibodeaux hit Boudreaux wi’ his paddle an Boudreaux broke his cane pole o’er Thibodeaux’s head. They got to wrestlin’ an fightin’ an’ got even more ass-lost.

The ocean, she’s always in a mood. A big big wave done hit their pirogue and knocked out both Boudreaux an Thibodeaux. But they was fightin’ so hard they don’t even notice.

Now Grand-mère Grand-père Calestros, She don’ really get Herself involved when Her chillins git quarrelsome. But She don’t really want none of us to die or nothin.

‘Oh babies! No, don’t you drown!’ Grand-mère Grand-père Calestros say, wavin’ Her hands at them fightin elves. An’ Boudreaux an Thibodeaux, they don’t drown. But they still fightin when they done sink all the way to the bottom.

At the bottom of the ocean they stop, an they axe Grand-mère Grand-père Calestros t’pick which ‘a them’s the winner. An She tells em that She loves them both the sames. Mad as snakes, they done split up an’ git t’thinkin.

Boudreaux, he done come up with a grand plan. He swims hisself upriver, swaps some fish fer some shiny gold, an turnt round to come back. He were gon’ give the shiny gold to Grand-mère Grand-père Calestros t’prove that he were the better elf.

But Thibodeaux, he were already up to no good, no. He went down deep, an prettied up his hair. He made hisself a grand do, lookin’ real fine t’prove that he were the better elf.

Grand-mère Grand-père Calestros look at Boudreaux an Thibodeaux, an Boudreaux’s shiny gift of gold an’ Thibodeaux’s real fine do. An She tells em how it is.

‘Oh babies! You know I can’t pick a favorite. I loves you both the same. Ain’t nothing you got to prove to me.’ An She gives em both hugs an kisses in the warm shallows of the sea.

But they fight ain’t over. Non. Boudreaux, he figures he just ain’t got the right gift yet. So he heads upriver an he trades some fish fer some shiny silver, an turnt round to come back. He were gon’ give the shiny silver to Grand-mère Grand-père Calestros t’prove that he were the better elf.

But Thibodeaux, he were already up to no good, no. He went down deep, an prettied up his ears. He made hisself a grand do, lookin’ real fine t’prove that he were the better elf.

Grand-mère Grand-père Calestros look at Boudreaux an Thibodeaux, an Boudreaux’s shiny gift of silver an’ Thibodeaux’s real fine do. An She tells em how it is.

‘Oh babies! You know I can’t pick a favorite. I loves you both the same. Ain’t nothing you got to prove to me.’ An She gives em both hugs an kisses in the warm shallows of the sea.”

Terje cannot help it. He watches as Drivel listens with rapt attention. Drivel records everything said with rapt, perhaps even nervous, attention… especially as the telling grows longer and longer. Upon seeing the crag utterly glued to the story, Terje fails to contain the laughter. After a moment or two, it dies down to chuckles.

“He can keep it up for about twenty minutes,” Terje comments, “After about ten, it’s no longer suitable for mixed company.”

“Aight, fine,” Smilisca says, looking winded, “The last one’s copper! An’ purty fins!”

“An’ here all them years later, Boudreaux’s family still goin’ up an down the rivers, tradin’ fer things that might please Grand-mère Grand-père Calestros. An’ Thibodeaux’s family still slinks ‘bout down under the sea makin’ themselves as pretty as can be. An they done forgot all ‘bout their fight ‘bout whose fault it was that they done got themselves ass-lost, but they ain’t never gon’ stop fightin ‘bout who is the better elf, not till Grand-mère Grand-père Calestros picks a favorite. An’ that ain’t gon’ happen, cause She loves all us elves the same.” He sticks the end piece on the tail of the story and calls it good.

“I see. That is extremely helpful, you have no idea… even in folklore, there’s always a core of truth which can help piece together everything. I can only hope to get as complete an explanation from… others.”

He gives a quick look around the other assembled elves, squinting at some faces. In particular, he keeps scanning the Winged elves delegation, looking a little more disappointed each time.

“That is, if I knew who to ask…” He mutters to himself.

At this point, the Dreamdust group arrives in a small cluster. Dust and Steve are in the lead, followed by Pebble and Dusk. Pebble is chattering excitedly and pointing out things around them, elbowing Dusk in the side whenever his attention seems to stray.

Shadimon waves from where he’s been standing quietly with Baijani, “Dust! You just missed the excitement!”

Dust hands off the food to Dusk and Pebble, and comes over, Steve close behind him. “Excitement?”

Shadimon keeps his voice a little lower, “You missed Terror yanking off her mask and kissing Breaker right there in front of Calestros and all Her people. Hell of a thing.”

Dust’s eyebrows elevate into his hairline, and he takes a moment to process that. “Well. How about that.”

While somewhat distracted, First is not one to shirk his duties as a ‘host’. Sparing a momentary surprised look at Drivel, of all people, conversing with the Rivers, he whirls on the Dreamdust elves, his fake smile finally reinforced.

“Ah, honored Dignitaries of the Dreamdusts! Welcome to Eparchy! I hope that you can find ample comfort here, and sustenance to your satisfaction.”

“I’m sure we will,” Dust says. “We appreciate your hospitality; Eparchy is lovely.”

The First nods politely at the response. He very pointedly avoids staring at Pebble.

Pebble, noticing this, chooses to gift First with unblinking eye contact. While grinning.

Apparently, the dreamdust elves are not the only new arrival. With First suitably distracted, a few plates of smoked fish appear on the table. Ink, Skulk, and Shine are apparently in attendance. The three of them stand slightly apart from the rest of the elves, with Shine rather pointedly standing between the group and First.

The First starts, actually clearing about half an inch as he notices the Cryptids from the corner of his eye. He stutters for a moment. “Er-”

Shine sees his moment. The tall elf sweeps across the pagoda towards first, then unrolls a formal bow at him.

“We thank you for the invitation to this year’s potluck, First among Scholars. We understand that you know little about us, and appreciate that you are willing to count us among the gathered elves. We both understand and deeply respect your need for privacy, and know the meaning of such a gesture.”

The First finally recovers. “...Yes. Of course. After all, it would not do to deny the Just, given all you have done for the… General… community. I can only hope that we have managed to accomodate for your needs, though we know little of the specifics… as is your preference, certainly.”

“It most certainly is,” Shine relates, “And our needs have been met quite satisfactorily. Including our need for privacy.”

Fury has been standing over by the dining tables, helping the strange, hunchbacked Fire Elf driver set the various Surtian foodstuffs out over a couple of the tables. She looks up, and gives the Cryptid delegation a very happy wave, narrowly avoiding dropping a plate of canapes in the process.

Ink waves back, with an expression that is happy. Probably. If you know him well enough.

“And those three are Ink, Skulk, and Shine,” Fury says quietly, looking at the adolescent elf that’s been regularly tailing her. “Very nice people. Ink and Skulk are both very dear friends of mine.”

She gives the kid a thoughtful look, biting at her lip. “I’m sorry about dragging you into a social situation like this, full of lots of people you’ve never met… and that you probably were thinking of as enemies. But this is the safest place in all of the World right now, trust me.”

The teenager looks at the tall and eerie elves, then back to Fury. She looks extremely suspicious, but says nothing.

“There isn’t a better wizard on this plane than Ink,” Fury says. “Though don’t tell Smilisca that,” she adds quickly. “And Skulk’s amazingly sneaky -- and fun, and a good friend.” She gestures to one of the bronze plates on the table. “Try the grape leaves, you’ll like them.”

Lucinia dutifully takes a piece of the food and munches on it. She still looks dour and suspicious, but nods in agreement.

“Is there anyone here you wanted to meet?” Fury asks. “I guess you don’t have a lot of context for most of these people, but it’s only really fair since I dragged you out here.”

"Ehra," Lucinia says quietly.

“I thought you might say that,” Fury says, forcing a smile. “Come on. I’ll introduce you.”

Fury leads her over towards Ehra. The older elf seems to see her coming. He passes the infant off to a baffled Breaker, then steps away from the group.

"Hello Fury," he gives a warm smile, "Who is your friend? I don't believe we've met."

"Lucinia," she states cooly without explanation.

“...Our remaining W-E guest,” Fury says quietly, glancing around to make sure there aren’t any Crag in hearing range.

"I see,” Ehra manages to say without changing his expression, “And you wanted to meet me?”

“Yes,” Lucinia replies, “Wanted to see you.”

“And?”

Lucinia pauses.

“Wanted to see if you’re the weak old fool they say.”

Ehra pauses, and frowns.

“Sometimes,” he answers.

“Is he what you expected?” Fury asks Lucinia.

Lucinia stares at him before answering.

"I don't know," she shakes her head and turns away, standing behind Fury again and facing the opposite direction.

“That’s fair,” Fury says, patting her shoulder. “He wasn’t what I expected, either.” She gives Ehra a quick smile in thanks.

Ehra smiles in return.

"She seems to trust you," Ehra nods, "I'll help how I can, but you have earned that I am sure. I'll trust your judgment with her."

“The two of us were caught in a bad situation, back in Surt,” Fury says quietly. “Tsun was… maybe I better let Terror tell you.”

"We will meet in private later," Ehra glances around the pagoda, "I'm sure there is much I need to know."

The dark elves arrive with a tad bit more fanfair than is usual for them. Mainly because there is a bean pole riding cross legged on the back of a badger and singing loudly about ‘A Dagger’s Great Deeds’ - his voice deep and carrying through the stone.

To give a juxtaposition to the bean pole, the dark elf walking next to the badger is stockier than their norm. Her arms are hooked lazily over the planson that rests across her shoulders. “Uncle, Shy is still here. Singing it louder is just more likely to make her turn invisible on top of sneaking away.” Her voice is horribly amused.

Rasputin tuts, “Ah but song is no longer for just her! Many eyes now listen to glory of song.”

Trischal rolls her eyes before setting sights on all of the assorted elves. “Ears, Uncle. Many ears.”

“Ah, and the honored Dignitaries from the Darks! Welcome unto you to Eparchy. Should you find the need for more shade, I am certain the Aggro… percussionists will gladly make room.” The First’s smile cracks a little.

The cryptid-esque old-as-balls elf grins widely in the direction of First’s general being, “Eparchy sings beautifully. Is great pleasure to be tasting it, The First Among Scholars.”

A deep sigh comes from Trischal who rolls her eyes again but leaves them to the sky for a few moments in prayer.

The First’s eyebrows furrow. “...Tasting.” He glances back at the food tables… in particular, the fish brought by the River elves. He sniffs experimentally.

Having compiled his notes from the River Elves, Drivel now spots his next target… one mentioned frequently in The First’s notes for his general knowledgeability.

“Excuse me… you would be… The ‘Hunger’, correct?” This one, he doesn’t mispronounce.

“That would be correct,” the Hunger says, nodding to him. “And you would be?”

Having a fair idea of who he’s talking to, Drivel seems to speak with a little more confidence. “Scholar Savant Drivel, of the study of Lowland Esoterica. According to my… notations… you are highly knowledgeable about many aspects. Just to confirm, would one of these involve the… unusual arcanic origins of your people?”

The Fire Elf shrugs his shoulders. “Sadly, exact knowledge of the effect that ‘allowed for the existence of’ my people is rather uncertain at this point. I can give you some of the general details of the situation at the time, and some idea of what the results have been, but current research into the exact nature of the effect is limited at best.”

Drivel makes an affirmative gesture. “What I am aware of is indicative of such, and of course I wouldn’t waylay you from the festivities just to cover any minutia that might be missing there. Rather… I’m afraid one point to which I do have some… blank areas... is not specifically your origins, but rather… well… how… err… to put it bluntly, how things have proceeded since then. While it is interesting enough that you’re people became… like this… in living memory, which of course is very exciting given general curiosity about the origin of various elf- sorry, tangent. Your people seem to have very consistent traits from this change. I know it has not been a great deal of time, but does it seem like these traits have… well… ‘passed’ consistently?” He seems somewhat embarrassed to be asking, but perseveres anyway.

"From the few examples we've had so far, yes," the Hunger says. "Within a standardly accepted amount of deviation. And, as is true with many biothaumatic traits, certain aspects of them -- such as flame coloration -- seem to vary irrespective of parentage. Though it's hard to be certain that is consistent either."

Drivel pauses in his notes when he reaches ‘biothaumatic’, but otherwise notates dutifully. “Yes… it actually would be that amount of deviation that is a point of some interest… although, of course, if that is a sensitive topic, I do not wish to pry!” he hastily adds.

Hunger pauses. "...You know, it is probably about time Surt recieved a large scale population survey… it has been five years, after all… Anyway, I of course don't have exact numbers with me, but we have noticed that color-relative phenotype elements and thermal regeneration have greater variation within families than would normally be expected, but other elements, such as peripheral heat delivery, appear to remain consistent across family lines and the population as a whole. Do you have any specific elements you wish to ask about, however?"

Drivel draws his lips into a thin line again, looking into the distance. “Honestly… as you currently lack the detailed information… err, not that I mean that as an indictment, it’s all too understandable that other things take precedence… but, it’s simply encouraging to hear that your subtype is… uh, sorry, I don’t mean to speak about your kind so coldly, I know some have issues with that. But it is… good? To hear that you appear to be stable. Um. But I apologize if that offends you. Or… or in general, really. Erm. I’ll… just get going. Now.” He then starts skulking off.

Recovering from his impolite phrasing away from the general cluster of elves, he sets his sights on his next target… but may need to wait a while before the Grandmaster becomes sufficiently disentangled.

...Although, apparently, that is not the case. With Lucinia apparently wishing to retreat and Fury following her, Ehra appears to be unentangled. Grimacing a little, Drivel steels himself; he can’t afford to pass up an opportunity. With unsteady movement, he works his way towards Ehra, before announcing himself by… making an awkward squawking noise.

“Grandmagh-” he clears his throat. “Sorry, erm… I do not wish to assume, but I would believe you to be… Er… the Grand Master? Is that the preferred title? The… record, is a little uncertain on that regard.” This sounds like a bit of an understatement.

"Grandmaster is my title, yes," Ehra gives the scholar a curious smile, "Though you may call me Ehra if you wish. It's not as if there are any other Grandmasters to confuse me with."

Drivel seems a bit taken aback by that show of familiarity. “Uhm… Do… you prefer to be called ‘Ehra’? Or Grandmaster? My apologies, I don’t… I don’t have much on this topic in my notes.”

"I like being called Ehra, actually," Ehra continues, "But it's only a preference. What about you, young man?"

“Oh. Yes. Ehem. I am Scholar Savant Drivel, of the Study of Lowland Esoterica. And… would it be fair to state that, given your advanced… er, extensive experience… you would be extremely knowledgeable regarding the nature of your people’s origins?”

Ehra unconsciously taps the hilt of his mourning blade.

"Yes," he answers plainly, "I was there for it. I was among the first generations of elves that the Lycans conquered and selected to be slave-soldiers, though I was barely old enough to remember it at the time. It's safe to say I am as old as the blade elves."

Drivel grimaces. “I… understand that this may be an… unwelcome discussion. I am aware enough of some of the details of your people to know that what has happened… well... it…” he actually drifts off, suffering from a bout of extreme awkwardness.

"It was a crime," Ehra answers calmly, "That does not mean we can't talk about it, or make the best of it today. Don't let it worry you, Scholar-Savant Drivel. I do not mind the discussion. What would you like to know?"

Drivel picks at his fingers for a moment, trying to figure out how to proceed without sticking his foot in his mouth. “...I thank you for your candor, but I will try to limit my questions, so as not to dwell. So, for what is most important…” he breathes out. “Do you know… how many generations were… involved?” He grimaces.

"That…" Ehra's look grows distant, "That's a difficult question to answer. Not for the reasons you're thinking. I kept track of every blade elf family as much as I could, but… in the crucible of war, most did not get a chance to enjoy their elven lifespan. It's hard to quantify as distinct generations. If I considered it for a while, I might be able to quantify it for you. I don't forget names. I have to wonder why you ask, though."

Drivel adopts a blank stare for a moment. Some distressed emotions seem to play across his face. He clears his throat and shakes his head.

“My apologies, G- Ehra. Uhm. I understand the difficulty you may have in quantifying. I would not ask you to dwell so long. The reason… well, my next question may make more sense with some… context.” He takes a deep breath. “In the times of our ancestors… the wisest of their number put forth some… predictions, as to the fate of Elvenkind following the Cataclysm… what you call the ‘Shattering’. But from what can be observed… well, it does not exactly mesh. Practice seems to have differentiated from theory significantly. And so, determining why… and how… is of some interest to my study.”

That sounds like… an explanation. But, not necessarily, the explanation.

Drivel clears his throat again. He avoids Ehra’s eyes. “...And so, the most important question here is… well… to establish a baseline… do you know who you were... before you were Blades?” He posits the question quietly, hesitantly.

"Also a difficult question," Ehra replies, "The Lycans stripped our culture from us. We don't even know the name of our culture… From what it sounds, though, you are interested in the physical more than the cultural. That I can offer some insight into. As far as I was able to tell, when the Lycans found us we were typical elves of no particular subtype. The physical differences you see now were caused by selection for those most suited to be soldiers, whether that selection was made by our masters or by simple attrition. I'd wager those differences were clear within a generation or two. Very few survived who weren't fit for combat, in those first few decades. That was, oh… slightly less than six hundred years ago. Is that helpful to you?"

Drivel scribbles his notes precisely… but something Ehra said makes him suddenly stop. “Forgive me, Ehra… You said… six hundred years? Did you misspeak?” Concern creeps into his voice.

"Yes, that is correct," Ehra notes, "I was alive when this began, albeit very young."

Drivel seems shocked. “...You meant that literally. Ancestors preserve. You…” he stops, trying to gather himself.

“...Yes, Ehra. That information is useful. And… and… distressing. For what has happened to your people… I know it means little, from one such as I, but I can understand the scope of the trespass against you. It is… mortifying.” He sounds legitimately upset.

"It means a lot, Scholar-Savant," Ehra smiles slightly, "It… wasn't always bad. Some of them were far greater than their reputation. That didn't change what had to be done. Today, though?"

Ehra looks back at the party. Siiri is sneakily trying to snag some baby time. Terje is sneakily being adorable with Smilisca.

"Today I am proud of what we have become."

Drivel still looks perturbed, but signs the affirmative. “You are… well, to behold what you are, and what you have done… it is fair to say you have reason to be proud. N-not that my particular judgement should be of any note there. It is merely that… considering that you appear to have been subject to a wors- an extreme case scenario… your people have weathered that strain remarkably well. Um. Not that I mean to say that what you are is a strain, it is just… erhmm.” On that little nervous noise, his words seize up once more.

“To you as well,” Ehra gestures slightly at the potluck, “I only know fragments of the hardship your people endured, but what you have produced after is wonderful.”

As Drivel dwells on the subject, his stare becomes increasingly thousand yard. “ ‘We dwelled in stone, made it a part of ourselves, and across the generations our hardships became our strengths.’ But... “ he actually brings himself to look at Ehra directly. “...We chose these hardships. You… did not.”

He is quiet for a moment more, before blurting out “Thank you, Ehra. What you have told me is extremely valuable knowledge. I… need to reflect upon it. I hope you can enjoy this celebration.”

And with that, he begins to make his way towards one of the more distant tables. He’s gonna need more than a couple seconds to parse through this new data.

Smilisca spots the collection of shadowy Cryptids and excuses himself from the very much enthralling conversation on the topic of expansion joints and stone masonry. He heads directly over to the cryptid convocation and greets Ink with an informal, “‘Sup?”

“Hello,” Ink peers down at the other wizard.

“Merry Elfmas... um, much belated.” The mud wizard fishes a handful of rings from his pocket and hands them over to the much taller elf.

“Elfmas…?” Ink takes the rings and peers at them, taking one between his fingers, “They are magic…”

Smilisca shrugs.

“Or happy new year, weh?” He nods a response to the question. “I thought it might be helpful, me.”

Ink’s tattoo swirls briefly as he examines the magic in the rings.

“Penumbra,” he notes as he looks up at Smilisca, “So we can…” he trails off a little bit. Smilisca only nods.

“Ooooh,” Skulk pokes her head past Ink and nabs one of the rings, slipping it on her very long finger, “Cool.”

Shine steps up as well, taking one of the rings and examining it before putting it on.

“We thank you for this gift, Navigator Smilisca,” He bows, then pauses as he assembles a sentence, “It will be a great benefit to our ability to interact with our kin.”

Ink looks at the remaining two rings.

“Still…” he rolls one to the side, then picks up the one remaining ring.

“I do not need it,” he slowly offers it back to Smilisca, “You know who does…”

Smilisca takes the ring back and pockets it.

“Mais, you know you ken visit if’n you jus’ send word first,” Smilisca offers in exchange.

A complex series of emotions cross Ink’s face.

“No,” he replies. After a brief awkward pause he asks, “Is she happy?”

“Weh,” Smilisca answers, “she’s got friends. Acris is somehow gettin’ the whole collection fer her it seems.”

“Oh,” Ink makes an expression that is some variety of smile, “That’s… good.”

The trodding of heavy boots announces the arrival of one of the last guests.

“I’m telling you,” Bryti speaks only to Allophryne, “None of this was here five years ago…”

“Sure, weh…” Allophryne does not sound convinced.

The pair arrive sans-Blinkin, who apparently could not be bothered with the stairs. Bryti quiets as she enters the pagoda. She moves cautiously, eyeing the Aggro in the area carefully. She apparently hasn’t been bothered yet. After a very brief pause she spots Litoria, then begins steadily pacing in that direction with Allophryne in tow.

Crag response to the arrival is mixed. Embebi’s brow furrows, as though in thought. The First first gets a small, wry smile, but then a small amount of worry creeps onto his face. Slabal… shows no recognition at all. And Echo?

Echo, still leaning against a wall way at the back, looks exceptionally perturbed.

Before any of them make a move, however, there is a small commotion from one of the small entrances dotted around the wall; not concern, but surprise. It seems one more Crag of some import has just arrived.

Sitting crosslegged on the back of a oxen of notable size is the scrawniest, thinnest, wrinkliest Crag that anyone has seen. Yet, as she travels inward toward the center of the Plaza, each Crag stops what they are doing and recognizes her passing. Her ox travels unhurriedly towards the knot of elves in the plaza… and, coincidentally, arriving there at about the same time as Bryti does.

Noticing her, she looks somewhat surprised for a moment… but then a small smile appears on her face.

“Seeker.” Her voice is surprisingly strong for how frail the rest of her looks.

“Esteemed Elpahka…” Bryti seems surprised momentarily, but then she turns and gives the elder elf a polite bow, “I was hoping we would get a chance to speak again someday.”

“Then, it seems your hopes have been fulfilled, Seeker. It is a curious thing, the fates the gods weave for us all.” With a light gesture, her mount lowers itself to the ground, laying comfortably in the plaza.

“That…” Bryti lets out a breath in a fashion that could be considered a laugh, “That is an extremely accurate statement.”

The Esteemed makes a small affirmative gesture. She then turns to face the other elves… or, at least, as many of them as she can get in one sweep. “Greetings to you all. I am the Esteemed Elpahka, and it is a pleasant thing to be meeting the leaders of our Otherelf kin after all this time. While I am disheartened that I know so few of you, I can only hope that that shall be rectified in time. Meanwhile, I trust that you have been…” she shoots a quick glance over at The First, “...suitably accomodated?”

The First, this time, is keeping his distance. He seems to be fidgeting with something in his robes.

Fury and Barry both make motions towards intercepting the Esteemed, but the Hunger reacts first.

“He has,” the Hunger says, stepping out of the crowd, and presenting the Esteemed with a quick bow. “Greetings, Esteemed Elpahka. I am the Hunger, of the Surtian Triumvirate.” He glances sideways at the First.

The First doesn’t notice his glance. It seems he is distracted elsewhere. Also, you know. Masks.

The Esteemed looks at the Hunger. “Of The Fire Elves. I have heard much of your people. Energetic. Ambitious. Possessed of a youthful vigor that I can but hope follows you for all of your people’s days. Truly, you possess the Fire that is your namesake.”

“For the good, and ill, it provides us,” the Hunger says. “Thank you. And from what we have learned of your people -- a relatively small amount,” he adds, “and I acknowledge your desire for security -- your namesake fits your people as well. The infrastructure and stonework of your Eparchy is impressive, to say the least. Despite our best efforts, I don’t believe the concrete-work of Surt can truly match it. At least not its ornate decor.”

Following Hunger, Shadimon steps up and gives a small bow, dipping his wings respectfully. “Esteemed Elpahka. I’m Wingleader Shadimon. We thank you for your hospitality.”

The Esteemed turns slightly to face Shadimon. “It is given as freely as it has been received. I have also heard of your people. The Winged. Or the Flying? Or the ‘Flappies’?” There is humor in her tone. The First visibly winces. “Many names, but it seems a truthful thing for your people. Free. Accepting. As unbound and open as the Air upon which you travel. It seems you have made it a part of yourself, just as you have become a part of it.”

Shadimon smirks slightly, “Flappies, burnies, soggies, stabbies...we all have nicknames for each other. ‘Winged’ is what we usually call ourselves, because yes, as you say, it’s our defining feature.” He glances away briefly, out over the mountains and down to the lowlands, “You have good winds up here. It makes for excellent flying.”

The Esteemed looks upwards. “I can imagine it is quite a sight.” she says wistfully.

“It is. Someday maybe our stonemasons can speak with yours. Like Hunger said, the work is astonishing. We’re learning, but a master hand is always welcome.”

The Esteemed smiles lightly. “It is a testament to the skill and dedication of our Onagi, the treasured craftselves who form the cornerstone of the Crag’s architecture… and, to the tireless work of one of the greatest of their kind, no matter how she will deny it.” She glances lightly over at Slabal, who… maintains the same expression.

During this time, Shine has apparently been making his way towards the scene. The tall cryptid kind of sidesteps his way towards the Esteemed and makes an appreciative gesture that comes off a little exaggerated.

“We have found your accommodations pleasing as well,” he intones, “and we appreciate both your attention to our specialized needs and our inclusion in the invitation, despite our lack of contact.”

The Esteemed levels an appraising stare at the Cryptid elf. “It is good to know that we have done well by your people. We know precious little… and yet, we can truly appreciate what a success our ignorance is. We know as much as you wish us to know, and in the interest of all our peoples, I hope that we can continue in that practice. After all, it is the Mystery between souls that allow us all to live as we each desire. Your people have embraced that Mystery, and it is a wisdom that you do so.”

Shine waits politely for her to finish speaking, and then several seconds more.

“Then we also appreciate your respect for our ways,” Shine notes in a slightly more serious tone, “For us, the Mystery is as important as the air we breathe.”

“Then breathe deeply, for this is a Wisdom that our people both embrace… though the times have shown that, perhaps, it is a Wisdom that can stand to be tested, from time to time.” There is a softness to her words. A hopefulness.

Shine stares at her momentarily. He glances back at Ink. Then, in lieu of an answer, he merely bows his head and steps backwards.

Hunger and Shadimon have a ‘brief’ aside.

Litoria spots Bryti over Sauver’s head and points the hippopotamus in that general direction. It’s easy to clear a path when you have a large animal to do the wading for you. Bryti sees her coming in her direction, and does not move.

Making up his mind, however, The First seems to choose this as the moment to make his move. Before Litoria can arrive, he hustles next to Bryti, then hisses a low sentence to her.

“Seeker. We… should speak. Ideally, somewhere less… crowded.” He jerks his head towards an unoccupied table, a little ways away from the general knot of elvenity.

Bryti looks away from the oncoming river elf and to First.

"Fine," she says, "But Allophryne stays with me, and if you want to keep Litoria away, you're welcome to try."

The First simultaneously grinds his teeth and sighs. He doesn’t even try to conceal it. “Whatever,” he hisses, “as though I had not had my fill of aggressive posturing lately.” He looks about ready to tirade… but instead, tears himself away, heading toward the table. He makes no movement to actually sit at it, however.

The hippopotamus follows the person she knows provides good ear scratches and snacks. Litoria follows the hippopotamus.

Bryti shrugs to Allophryne and follows First. When they're out of earshot of most of the party, she gives him a curious look.

"I do have to say though," she notes, "I appreciate the invitation."

Despite his otherwise serious expression, The First flashes a cocky smile. “Well, of course. After all, what better opportunity to confirm my theories, than in an environment in which I have total control? Or…” the smile drops, “...at least, control, to a degree. Somewhat. Look. You are correct, I absolutely intended for you to be here… but things have… developed, somewhat, since my initial plan. There are… elements in play that have made your presence here slightly more… nevermind that. Here. Take this.”

He fishes in his robe, and extracts… what appears to be a locket. Made of some polished brown stone with white swirls in it, it seems a little too large to be a normal one.

Bryti takes the locket with an extremely curious look on her face and examines it carefully, turning it over in her hand. It feels… unbalanced.

"First… what is this? What are you talking about?"

There’s a little bit of that smirk again. “Well, to all appearances, it is nothing more than an expertly crafted piece of fashion… made of a substance called ‘howlite’, appropriately… but in truth, it actually contains a concoction of my own brewing. The top piece twists off; merely twist, and quaff. Since you seem to have a… notable talent for becoming involved in compromising situations, the potion within will serve to mask you… both in sight, and in scent… long enough that you can make way, should things become… hairy.” He cannot help himself.

Unfortunately, it also seems he cannot maintain awareness; his exchange has not gone unnoticed. Eyes twist from frustration to fury as he hands over the jewelry. A mound of flesh moves, with surprising speed and silence.

Bryti is still giving the gift a curious look.

"That… actually means a lot to me," she quietly pockets it, "I admit, it's a surprise."

The First clears his throat. “Yes. Well. Sometimes, it pays to plan for failure. I know that all too well. Even with a mind such as mine, I can admit that sometimes I have… gone a bit far, in some places. And it would not do to lose such an intr- pivotal key to understanding recent events as yourself. Indeed, it is quite possible that your importance cannot be unders-”

The sun dims just a little bit over The First. His eyes grow big.

“What. Is. This.” demands The Echo of Blood.

"An elf," Bryti doesn't flinch as she turns towards the mountain of crag.

“Do not lie before me, Seeker. But my words were not for you. First.” He takes one large step forward. The First instinctively takes a step back, but runs into the table behind him.

“It is gall enough that you have brought… this… here, once more withholding that which I should know. But what is this… exchange? A payment? A Corruption? Or are you Truly that depraved?”

Despite being on his back foot, The First’s expression transforms into a rictus of rage to match Echo’s. “...Depraved?!”

Echo growls deeply. “You would do well to stop thinking of me as ignorant, First. I am well aware of the nature of your… ‘communications.’ You are not such a master of falsehood as you imagine yourself to be. I know of all you have sought. Your… predilections.” He spits the word with disgust.

The First is gobsmacked. Around his neck and forehead, his skin darkens.

“...And, even more sickeningly, you choose now to act on them. You are one of the few I would have expected to understand the stupidity of-”

“Stupidity?! Stupidity?! You vacuuous oaf! You thickheaded dunce! I’m working to circumvent the issue this moment! To have handled it quietly! Subtly! Not that you know of the sort, you Headdam fool!”

Now it is Echo’s turn to be gobsmacked. However, he rounds far faster than The First did. “Headdam?! You--” However, it seems he isn’t as quick on an insult as The First is.

“YES! HEADDAM! If it wasn’t for your fat tongue and empty mind, I might not have even to have considered taking this precaution! But no! No! You just had to strut and bellow and posture and rage, and to what End? If you had just kept your tongue, I could have handled that entire situation! But you think that somehow receiving the title of Chief of the Aggro somehow imparts the intelligence it is supposed to imply! But time and time and time again, you will do your utmost to prove that it takes more that a massive mound of muscles to be worthy of such a thing, you… you… BACKSTEP!”

From the moment it clears his mouth, The First’s expression shows that he knows… he’s fucked up.

That’s when two massive hands clamp around his arms, hefting The First in the air and squeezing.

“BACKSTEP?!”

A white furred hand clamps down over Echo's. He is unprepared for the sudden strength of a werewolf in hybrid form. Bryti literally pries him off of First, causing him to topple to the ground. Echo finds himself eye to eye with someone suddenly his height.

"That. Is. Enough." She snarls at him.

It is also at about this time that the hippo trundles up behind them, with its rider quietly cursing in Sylvan.

It is also about that point that a collective, panicked gasp rings out among the small Crag population in the plaza. Each of them seems frozen in place… Except for Echo. Muscles tensing, his pried hands instead grasp around the arms that hold them.

“YOU DARE.” It is not a question. Looking into his wild eyes, shrunk to pinpricks, it is clear that whatever restraint may have existed before is now long gone.

“YOU.” He takes a step forward. While Bryti’s grasp is ironclad, the smooth tiles of the plaza provide no good purchase.

Bryti's paws skid on the incredibly well-crafted tiles. Unlike Echo, her face is calm. She braces herself and begins to glow with the same pale Aura she had while fighting Terror.

"Don't!" She yells out behind Echo.

Litoria slowly lowers the spear she was unlashing from Sauver's flank.

"This is between us!" She continues, "I know what I'm-"

“DARRRGGGHHH~” Echo continues, as each step he takes picks up more and more speed, Bryti practically skating across the tiles.

"You too, Shy," Bryti grunts with strain as she struggles to stay upright, "I have a plan."

Bryti's plan apparently involves not so much stopping Echo as staying upright and directing the grapple away from other elves.

Her plan succeeds with flying colors. And is accompanied by flying colors. Several decorative vases tumble, spilling their decorative plants, as the two enjoined combatants reach full steam.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-” Echo emphasizes, as the two bowl past a gaggle of quickly dodging Samra. Suddenly, there is nowhere left to go in the Plaza. And so, with a loud whumpf and a cloud of masonry, Echo pushes the both of them through the border wall.

Oh, hey. Even more flying colors.

The hippopotamus attempts to follow, but only succeeds in plugging the hole.

Across the plaza, Shadimon swears violently, thrusts the baby into Baijani’s arms, and flings himself into the air to follow.

Allophryne stands where he has been literally left in the dust and just quietly sighs.

He turns to the nearest other elf and says, “Mais, that happened.”

Embebi sighs quietly. “Aff.” She literally grabs another gawking Crag and pulls her close.

“Attend. Rapres. Circle, Nulltarg. Maintdist. Maintdist very, very wide.”, she rapidly whispers.

As the other Crag breaks into a run, she turns her gaze back to hippo rear. And sighs again.

Allophryne extends a hand toward his newly found compatriot in complaint while giving her a once-over extra special glance to determine if she might also be Afflicted.

“Weh, I don’t think we’ve met before. I’m Allophryne Allophrynidae, an’ you are?” Apparently the answer to this initial question is Not Afflicted. That’s a good start.

Embebi looks over at Allophryne, then gets a wry smile. “Not terribly surprising, that. For getting out so much, I don’t manage to get out that much. Embebi. Err, Arckerova, now. Not that I stand on that much, just Embebi’s fine.” Compared to the other Crag, she seems remarkably calm about the sudden advent of a Werewolf. Most of them seem to be flipping out to some degree or other. Well, except Slabal. She just looks a bit disappointed.

Allophryne gives up on the offered handshake.

“Panic here often, weh?” Allophryne asks conversationally. He didn’t think that Eparchy seemed as prone to theatrics as Surt, but here they are.

Embebi purses her lips. “No, it’s not usually like thi- Actually, nevermind. ‘Yes’ seems the truer response today.”

“Potlucks,” the river elf grumbles mildly.

Near the center of the Plaza, The Esteemed Elpahka finally manages to stir her ox to rise. When she speaks, it is loud, yet calm.

“Do not succumb to alarm. What you have seen is no call for panic. As you can see, all is in hand. This is one of the safest places you may be, for now.”

True to her word, the numerous Aggro who made up the ‘band’ (which came to an abrupt stop moments ago) fan out at this point, surrounding the plaza’s entrances.

Baijani looks at the damaged wall and the immovable hippo, past it to the crashes and plumes of dust, and sighs. “Keep watch,” she murmurs to Dhakamari, before making her way through the crowd to where First is still where Echo dropped him. She crouches down a bit creakily nearby, “Here, brancher. Are you hurt?”

The First is still on hands and knees, breathing through his teeth, his expression… ugly. A tear has run down his face. Still, he manages to grind out; “It is nothing...Hn… I am not… prepared for!” With one free arm, he starts to rummage through his robes… only to hiss as his elbow makes a loud click when he moves it.

Baijani touches her holy symbol, “May I heal you?”

“I Said I Am Prepared For This!” he struggles out. He clenches his teeth harder as he struggles past the pain. Finally, he manages to grab ahold of something, and extracts a vial… full of some green, viscous liquid. It doesn’t resemble any familiar kind of healing draught.

She tilts her head, watching him quietly, “Does this happen often?”

The First gives Baijani a deeply bitter look. Tearing the cork from the vial, he spits it, and desperately drinks the contents. Exhaling hard, and inhaling as hard, he stares up in what he wishes was a defiant gesture. “I’m sorry to say, not as often as he’d probably like. Your disappointment must be palpable; I know he is not the only to favor violence over truth.” Some of the color returns to his flesh as the concoction works its way through.

She holds out a hand to help him up, in a gesture they both know to be more symbolic than functional. “I don’t like you, First, but I don’t wish any harm on you.”

The First barks out a disdainful laugh. As he recovers his feet (of course ignoring the offer of help), his stiff motions show his injuries are not healed… he’s just better tolerating them. “Winged… you and I both know what a preposterous falsehood that is. That you thought to utter it verges on embarrassing.”

She sighs and shakes her head, “Mother guide you to someone who can help you, brancher, if it’s not meant to be me.” With that, she turns and walks away.

As she leaves, The First slumps a little, leaning against the table for support. “Crone.” he mutters sourly, not quite under his breath. His gaze tracks over to the Esteemed as he utters it.

It is around this time that Sauver finally pushes herself through the gap in the wall, leaving a much larger hole behind her as she surges forward looking for the fuzzy one who gives snacks and ear scratches. Crumbling masonry trails behind her. Litoria clings to the hippo's saddle with a keen understanding of just how little control she really has over this situation.

The hippo disappears as she accelerates away. There is an awkward silence filled only by the last few chunks of masonry crumble to the floor.

"Typical," A voice breaks the quiet from close to the central table. The last guests have arrived.

A wolf elf stands next to the central table. She is clad in red and black dress armor and bears braided grey hair. She stands at attention watching the gap. Another wolf elf is behind her. He is placing a tray on the table, full of what appears to be smoked meats. On the other side of the wolf elf stands Jahnni, her expression placid and peaceful as always.

"The old beasts always were prone to that kind of behavior," the wolf elf states.

The Hunger had been standing by the pagoda, casually taking notes on the ornate carvings worked into it, while keeping an eye on the First and the very large hole in the nearby wall. He tucks his notes back into the satchel at his waist, and turns to regard the new arrivals.

“That’s a rather hypocritical argument from one of Cantia’s brood, isn’t it?” he says mildly.

The wolf elf turns to look at the Hunger with an expression of curiosity.

"As acidic as your reputation suggests, Hunger," she nods to him, "Though I'm not sure what you mean. I was invited, and I have not thrown anyone through a wall. We even brought a dish. That is the custom, am I correct?"

“You’ve managed basic hospitality. Good for you,” Hunger replies. “And you’ve grasped the concept of ‘invitations’ well enough to show up when invited. You’ll have to work on ‘when not to show up’ later, but progress is still progress, I suppose.”

In many cases, the Crag response to this arrival seems to resemble that of the other Elves. The Esteemed appears to be worried, Embebi seems to be concerned, The First seems to be… embarrassed, for some reason, and Slabal… well, okay, nothing there. Most of the general assembly of Crag, however, seem to be more occupied with recent werewolf events than other Lowlanders.

The Esteemed guides her mount towards the new arrivals, but focuses her attention not on them, but on Jahnni. “Mother Superior. I am curious as to what you are doing here. Particularly in this… Company.”

Jahnni responds calmly, cooly. “Esteemed Elpahka, as I was conversing with our guests, I learned that they were not aware of this recent celebration. As my understanding is that it is meant to be open to all of Elvenkind, I believed this to merely be an oversight. From your question, however, am I to take it that this was not the case? Have I overstepped?”

The Esteemed frowns. “You have, Mountain Mother. While you are correct, there still exists longstanding enmity between these peoples. Their presence is not in the interest of Harmony.”

Jahnni bows deeply. “For having overstepped my bounds, I am deeply apologetic, Esteemed Elpahka.” She certainly doesn’t sound sorry, though. “But if enmity lasts, then is this not the correct thing to do? After all, it is considered traditional Wisdom that, where disharmony reigns, it is best addressed with all who quarrel present, so that all may be assured that their grievance is uttered and acknowledged. Would that not also apply here?”

The Esteemed looks… uncertain.

Across the plaza, Shrike’s wings snap open, mantling protectively over herself, her mother, and her children. Behind her, Dhakamari faces away and keeps his eyes on the sky and surrounding mountains.

Lucinia ducks behind Fury, her eyes wide.

"Don't let them near me," she whispers, "The disguise doesn't hide scent."

“I won’t,” Fury whispers back, really wishing she’d thought to bring a vial of peppermint oil or something. “Stay behind me.” She takes a few sidesteps over towards the dining tables, trying to maintain the distance between herself and the newcomers as much as possible.

The wolf elves remain where they are. The leader eyes Fury, but does not interfere. Instead, she bows her head to the Esteemed.

"My apologies," she states, "The fault is mine. I had hoped we could communicate, but I should have expected them to react like this."

“You fucking well should have expected us to react like this,” Trischal snarls hotly from where she had placed herself between the newcommers and a badger bound Rasputin. “Kill any innocent civilians recently? Or are you taking a vacation from murder?”

Rasputin whistles a calm tune and seems unperturbed by this development.

"Case in point," the wolf elf sighs.

Jahnni inclines her head to The Esteemed once more. “Though I am contrite for this misunderstanding, Esteemed Elpahka, by all I see and hear, it seems the ancient wisdom holds true here. Here, there seems to be an outpouring of ill will, of resentment and anger, as they did not even spare for one of the Lycan ilk,” The Esteemed seems shocked as she says that word, “but they do so by sight alone, judging by her kind, with no evidence of personal transgression. It would seem here is an opportunity to let misunderstandings be set aside, so only truth and understanding is left in its place.”

The Esteemed still looks uncertain.

There is a brief flurry of noise from the winged elves as the infants pick up on the tension and start crying. Baijani approaches calmly, having handed Davarash off to Dhakamari. She looks cooly up at the wolf elves, hands clasped behind her back, “I am Baijani, priest of the Goddess. In Her name, I greet you.”

Allophryne sincerely hopes he has been forgotten, as he attempts to blend into the wall. Nothing here but busted masonry and some nice green moss. Nope nope.

Dust stays where he is, and Pebble steps in front of Steve and Dusk.

The wolf elf turns to Baijani and looks her over, paralleling her body language.

"A truth to start," she replies, "I am Vesnia Andskoti, of the rank Primus. This is my second, Centurion Krassus. I greet you as well, Baijani."

Wood creaks from where Trischal’s grip is around her weapon. Her aggressive posture drops in momentary surprise as a spindly hand rests itself upon her head and pats it a few times. “Hush, hush, young Scoutmaster.” Rasputin speaks and his tone is amused, “The Crag speaks true.”

Before Trischal can swing into a full protest with loud expletives, Rasputin slides off of the badger and stands to his full height. He bows neatly at the waist in the direction of the wolf elves. “I also give greetings, ones who smell of fur. I am Rasputin the Echoes of Many.”

"Then I greet you in return, Rasputin," Vesnia looks between the two of them, "It is good to see that we may resort to words before blades."

“Weh,” Smilisca agrees, “It is a potluck, an’ apparently yer invited guests. Hospitalité dictates, non?”

"Oui," Vesnia replies in Sylvan that is altogether too correct, "My intention is to attend this potluck and participate in the Athlon. That is the truth. I did not come here to start violence."

Baijani tilts her head, keeping her unblinking gaze on the other woman, “To listen, to observe. To collect information in the open. But no violence, I will believe.”

Rasputin grins widely, “No violence can be lived with as a truth.”

"Then I thank you for acting rationally," Vesnia tells them both, "After all, we're all elves here." Her eyes dart briefly to the hole in the wall. Next to which, there is an elf desperately pretending to be moss.

“Yes,” Baijani says. “Unique parts of a whole, meant to coexist.” She turns away from the wolf elves, her voice warming significantly and losing the hint of an echoed undertone, “Rasputin, it’s been too long! And Trischal, my goodness is that Fuzzy?” She goes over to talk with the dark elves, keeping one ear back toward the main tables.

"Indeed…" Vesnia seems to handle Baijani's brush off with a thin smirk.

"Ah, the trademark Cantia smirk," Hunger says. "Speaking of predictable behavior… Vesnia, were Surt to try and send messages to your settlement, where would we need to send them? I might want to send you a condolence package after the Athlon ends."

"You seem rather focused on her," Vesnia turns to Hunger, "Perhaps you are having difficulty after your past experiences with her. I am no slave to her will, even though you are determined to see her touch in every corner. As far as messages… a line of communication is perhaps not a terrible idea, though it might be difficult to select a neutral location that you will not take advantage of. Magic contact, perhaps? I am willing to reply to Sendings."

"Only in that it's professionally fascinating to see her work in the field again," Hunger says. "That, and your people haven't been very forthcoming on your culture or your village, but I'll work with what I have."

The Fury sidestepped over to the River Elf side of the buffet tables, and gave the plates a quick glance before turning back to Vesnia and company. "Okay, I know this is going to be miserable," she whispers, keeping her shoulders straight and her eyes fixed on the Wolf Elves, "but can you use any of this to hide your scent? ...We'll head out the hole, towards Tee. They'll give us some cover."

Lucinia quickly grabs a few particularly pungent items, getting a side eye from the silent Krassus. She tugs on Fury's arm and steps away.

"This hurts my nose," she whispers, "But still if they get too close…"

"They'll burn first," Fury whispers back. "No niceties today." She steps back, and starts moving around the tables and towards the giant hole in the wall, catching Hunger's eye in the process.

If the Hunger notices, he doesn't react. "We can arrange some kind of communication utility for you. Perhaps in exchange for a cessation of hostilities?"

"Interesting suggestion," Vesnia notes, "What, in your mind, would such a cessation look like?"

Krassus moves quietly, walking swiftly in the direction of a retreating Fury. ⁵

Fury lets him get to fifteen paces out from her before reacting. "That's close enough, thank you," she says, glaring at him, heat racing up her cheeks. "I don't mean to be rude, but take another step in this direction and I will be."

She shakes her head. White-hot wings pour from her back.

That causes Krassus to stop in his tracks. He looks at the wings, then Fury's face, then to the figure huddled behind her. Krassus scowls, then begins to move.

"Stop," Vesnia's order is perfectly clear.

Krassus stops before taking a step. His scowl turns back to Vesnia.

"The Fury has made her intent perfectly clear," Vesnia states, "If she is so disgusted by our presence that she cannot stand one of us being near her, then we shall not press it. Let her go."

"Yes, Primus," Krassus growls at her. He turns, glares at Fury momentarily, then stalks back towards the table.

“Or maybe it’s a sign you need a bath,” Barrabus says, smiling (number twenty-one: “Ha ha funny joke”). He steps over to the other side of the large hole in the wall, and gives the surviving masonry a gentle pat. “Kidding, of course.”

Fury leads Lucinia through the wall, keeping herself between the kid and Krassus. Barry gives them both a sideways glance.

“Perhaps a prisoner exchange?” Hunger says. “A formal agreement to not send disguised minions into each other’s territory?”

"You know I can't trust that," Vesnia states, "The last time you offered to broker a deal, you sent a fire bomb into a civilian population center. If I asked for a prisoner exchange, you'd probably send me ashes. That's all you have to give, yes? You like saying that."

Hunger grabs a mug from a nearby table, and takes a quick sip through a straw.“Not my fault if my enemies’ plans go up in smoke.”

"Along with anyone else in the way," Vesnia says, "No, I do not think I will be accepting any Surtian horses today."

“Then by all means, ask the other delegations,” Hunger replies. “Surtian horses; I love that. I’m certain someone will be willing to talk to you.” He scans the area around the Pagoda, and then shrugs. “Someone, probably. To be blunt, I don’t give a fuck -- you can ask your ‘mom’ about that. Talk to whom you want, but you won’t find a warmer reception, I guarantee.”

"Then perhaps it was a mistake to attend," she notes, glancing back at Jahnni, "I was foolish to expect anything different."

Krassus continues to glower as he returns to the table, though he does not exclude his superior from the gesture.

Jahnni doesn’t emote, but she does meet Vesnia’s gaze. “Though in this situation, it is not my place to interfere, I do not believe you were mistaken, Vesnia. Indeed, this is but the beginning of your efforts. It is a known wisdom that early days of any truly vexing conundrum will always meet with failure and difficulty; the success of the future cannot be sampled from the success of the present. Perseverance and endurance are the keys to progress, for without them, every attempted task will fail.”

The Esteemed continues to have a nonplussed look on her face… and she is not the only one. A number of Crag, dressed in robes with sashes similar to the Esteemed and Jahnni, are looking between the two of them, clearly perturbed about these events.

"Thank you for that Wisdom Jahnni," Vesnia nods to her, "I will do my best to take it to heart."

“Right next to the ether and powdered Lycan bone,” Hunger says.

Now, it is Jahnni who returns a level gaze to The Hunger. “The pain that lies between you two is vast, as can be seen by all. But it is a poor reconci-”

“Mountain Mother Superior,” The Esteemed finally chimes in, “you overstep your bounds once more. It is not the place of your creed to provide for council and reconciliation. The Mountain Mothers have another task. I fear you have overreached without realizing the hazard it brings to all.”

Jahnni turns, and bows once more. “I find myself chastised once more, Esteemed Elpahka. It was not my intention to overstep my creed. All I am stating are the wisdoms that all Elpahka… indeed, that any Crag... know and embrace with every beat of our hearts.”

“Yes,” The Esteemed replies. “Every Crag. But it is not our place to meddle in the affairs of others. They have their own ways, and their own means.”

“A great truth, Esteemed. I merely was swept by what I saw. There is so much of what happens here that seems so familiar… as, indeed, it should. Though they are not Crag, they are Elves, as we all are, as we all strive to be. We are all a single tree, bearing a great original root; so much did their plight move me in it’s familiarity that I found myself drawn to help. I can only but hope that, in spite of my impertinence, the Wisdom of the Crag could find some value, even in these distant kin.”

The Esteemed, and many others, seem to be given pause by that response.

"If I may," Vesnia states, "I do not know about these other lowlanders or what they believe, but the Wisdom of the Crag has shown me a great deal. Do not fault her, please. I have been eager to learn, and perhaps she assumed the others would also be fertile ground."

The Esteemed says nothing… but does not look as conflicted as before.

"Or we just don't think you're really trying to get on our good side," Barry says. "You could try an apology. I hear those are quite popular. In fact…" he turns to the Esteemed, and drops her a low bow. "With your permission, I, Barrabus Leafstorm, would love to learn more of the Wisdom of the Crag. As a bard, learning the wisdom of my fellows is practically my duty."

Hunger stares at Barry as if he's grown an extra head.

The Esteemed looks surprised by his forward suggestion… then thoughtful. She shoots a glance over at Jahnni, whose expression does not change in the slightest… though she does stand a little taller.

“It is unusual,” the Esteemed begins, “...But these have proven to be most unusual times. Perhaps something of that nature may be arranged, Bard… Barrab-us.” She winces a little at her uncertain stumble.

If Vesnia glares slightly at Barrabus it's hard to tell.

Hunger, being an opportunist, doesn’t care to check. “I’m not hearing that apology.”

"Why?" Vesnia asks him, "I have done nothing to you."

“And it’s not me you should be apologizing to,” Hunger says.

Bryti returns to the pagoda. Still in hybrid form and still extremely battered, she stalks a direct line for Vesnia, though her sword remains sheathed.

Vesnia hisses in a breath. She turns to face the approaching werewolf. She puts a hand on her sword but leaves it sheathed.

As Bryti returns, severely battered, the general attitude of the Crag in the plaza goes from uncertain and shaky to pure panic. Shouts of alarm and fear erupt as those of the various civilian bloodlines dash for the security of nearby buildings. The Aggro, spread to the far parts of the Plaza, collapse inwards. A number of them actually do draw liths and kuthes, but thus far keep their distance… none of them have any silver.

One, however, actually interposes between the advancing werewolf and her target. A bow is drawn. An arrow is knocked, but pointed downward. Her face is fearful, but resolute.

“Neg.” Says Embebi.

Bryti stops. She stares Embebi directly in the eyes. Her lip curls as if to snarl, then stops. She raises her head and looks at the panic around her, then back to Embebi.

"I mean no harm to any Crag," she says.

Embebi swallows hard, but holds fast. “Then I’ll hold you to that word.” She stays right where she is.

Bryti gives Embebi a stare, then nods.

"You are resolute in your duty, then. Very well."

Bryti lifts her head and looks to Vesnia.

"TELL THEM WHAT YOU WERE GOING TO DO TO ME!" She yells loud enough for much of the settlement to hear.

"I-I don't know what you're talking about, mad beast!" Vesnia snaps back.

"Yes you do!" Bryti counters, "Harvest! The wolf elves were going to harvest me! Tell me, wolf, what does that word mean!?"

"I… don't know what she's talking about," Vesnia stammers, off guard.

“Right,” Hunger says. “You certainly did not send a ten-score band of elite cavalry straight towards Crag settlements after her. One that the Aggro had to chase out themselves. All in the name of harvesting her, like you do with other elves.”

The circle of Aggro draws tighter… but at this point, it’s obvious that it is not only Bryti who has weapons trained on her. A number of the Aggro, the older and more scarred, have moved to flank the Wolf elves. Still, distances are maintained.

"We don't… harvest elves!" Vesnia snaps, but suddenly realizes that was a mistake.

"They are beasts," Vesnia speaks more carefully, "Monsters of the old world. We took their strengths for ourselves, so that we would no longer be dominated by them. Yes, we killed many of them in the process. So what? Is there anyone here who hasn't?"

Behind her, Krassus takes a step back, eyeing the closing ring. He keeps a hand at his belt and his back to Vesnia's.

Litoria approaches, still riding Sauver. Her silversheen weapon is in her hands, but held at a low ready, not making any threat.

“Non,” is her quiet reply, “mais, you know that war is over.” Smilisca is carefully counting people in his vicinity.

"That war!" Vesnia replies, "And what about what comes next?"

She glances at the Crag beside her.

"Jahnni, you were right. There is a time of great change upon us, and if we are not prepared for it we will be swept away."

Jahnni, who has been maintaining a placid expression in spite of her obvious tension, looks between Vesnia and Bryti. Despite her cool demeanor, she cannot help the flash of fear she feels when beholding the Werewolf.

“And if we are not prepared, then it is well and right that we should be. But preparation can be found in many forms, by many means. And though none shall truly know what fate awaits, it can be seen by what remains what methods are most successful.” Somehow, she manages to keep her voice level.

“We are currently buildin’ what comes next.” Litoria answers, in a cold tone. “Weh. We will know the current of the next war by what we toss downstream. So let’s hear it, weh. What are yall building?”

"The only thing that will survive," Vesnia speaks through clenched teeth, "An empire."

Shyrendora makes herself visible for the first time, a hand resting on the hilt of her sheathed dagger. "One with your people at the top and in control. One without pesky leaders like me in the way."

Vesnia starts at the sudden appearance of the Domawit, unable to come up with a response before the attack continues.

“And the elves that you’ve taken?” Shrike says, her voice soft but carrying to avoid upsetting the nursing infant. “The fight in the badlands, where you were dragging off civilians in the night? Is that to replace your own people who die on suicide missions? Or just to be afflicted shock-troops?”

"You're not-" She struggles for words, "You're not prepared for what is to come. None of you. You are not ready to make the decisions that will need to be made. The world that's coming will eat you alive."

“Then what’s coming,” Shadimon says quietly. “If you want elven unity, then tell us. Help us. Don’t order us. Don’t deliberately undermine us.”

“So who is prepared?” Fury says, stepping back through the hole in the wall, Lucinia tagging along behind her.

"Lock is," Vesnia practically snarls the name, "The dwarves are. The hobgoblins are preparing. Hells, the halflings probably are by now. What is coming is an age of empires, and unless we form our own we will be a footnote to other races. In the age to come, there will only be conquerors and the conquered. Which will you choose?"

“I think I’ll choose one that can tell the difference between the two,” Fury says. “One that doesn’t teach their children that ‘civilian’ is a dirty word.”

"There will always be a need for soldiers who-" Vesnia starts.

"You do not know what that word means," Ehra states with more anger and intensity than anyone present has ever heard, "Do not disgrace it again. A soldier serves their people."

“...Seems to me, that begs what you think she’n hers are doing here,” Embebi manages through fear-clenched teeth. “Way I see it, takes some mohs to walk into a roc den like this. I haven’t seen such a gathering of murderous intent since the Extermination, quiaff? But, guess’n if you don’t take much to how she serves, then you just don’t care much for her people. Fair enough.” She grinds out these last words, still staring at the werewolf before her.

“Well, given they tricked Tsun into a suicide mission, and tried to kill her when it failed,” Hunger says, “perhaps we’re just a little tired of their tactics.”

Embebi starts, caught off guard. However, in the face of such a dire threat, she has no time to ponder revelations, and so she returns to her defensive stance. Revelations can be pondered if she lives. Still, her defiance takes a significant knock.

"That's a good question though," Shadimon says thoughtfully. "What are they doing here? Other than fostering a rift in your Elpahka. That's obvious."

Many of the Crag surrounding the confrontation stiffen. The Esteemed frowns. The First, hiding partially behind a table, gives a pained groan and puts his face into his hands.

“A Rift.” The Esteemed says, with surprising volume. “What do you mean by this?”

“It’s what they’ve done elsewhere,” Shadimon says with a small bow toward her. “The subverted a fire elf organization, to destabilize the leadership. If I’m hearing correctly about Tsun being a pawn of theirs. They empowered a disgraced dark elf leader to split their people and set them on each other. Admittedly I don’t understand fully how your people work, but,” he gestures toward Jahnni, “this looks like cross-purposes to an outsider.”

"No," Vesnia answer with sudden intensity, "That's not what this is! I'm trying to save the Crag!"

Krassus glares back at her, but stays silent.

While The Esteemed is still clearly peeved at Shadimon, Vesnia’s outburst seems to be of a somewhat greater concern to her. She quirks an eyebrow, looking directly at the wolf elf.

“Save?” she asks, with a tightly controlled calmness.

"I-" Vesnia grits her teeth, "Yes. Save. I… I told you, Jahnni. My orders were to learn the wisdom of the Tome. I have learned that this is inseparable from the Crag themselves. My superiors… are skeptical."

"Primus," Krassus growls.

Jahnni, in spite of the rising tension, looks calmer than before… indeed, as calm as she has been the whole time. Very gently, she lights a hand upon Vesnia’s shoulder.

“Primus Vesnia. I wish upon you wisdom. I wish upon you reason. I wish upon you freedom from fear, from shame, from the animal within your mind which would destroy you, and all you know. I wish Ancestor’s Tranquility Upon-”

Jahnni’s hand starts to glow as she reaches towards Vesnia to cast her spell. Vesnia’s eyes go wide.

“Don’t-” she almost gets out.

“Fuck this!” Krassus snarls. His hand snaps to his belt and he grabs some kind of weapon.

“No!” Vesnia shouts.

Suddenly, an ice wall erupts betten the wolf elves and the rest of the group, driving a wedge between them and Jahnni. The thick ice provides only a dim view of what’s going on. There is some kind of struggle inside the wall. Krassus screams, followed shortly by Vesnia. Then, there is only silence.

Embebi, already on a hair trigger, whirls around to see the dome. Even before the screaming starts, she’s begun hurling herself toward it... distracting her from the waiting werewolf. Her face is strained with anguish.

Jahnni, however, doesn’t even seem perturbed by these events. She just stares at the ice, hand still raised.

Smilisca, however, slowly lowers his webbed hands, letting the crumbled bit of material component fall to the ground quietly.

Hunger breaks the silence. “Well, damn,” he mutters to himself. “Suicidal fanatics. Can’t even talk to them.” He glances over to Bryti, who is still standing around in hybrid form, awash in mud, blood, and bruising. “Do you need a healing elixir? Or do you just enjoy standing around, covered in blood?”

By the time Embebi reaches the ice, she has her kuthe in her off hand. She slashes desperately at the barrier, but makes little impact. Grunting, she begins beating on the ice with her pommel.

With a shrug, Smilisca dismisses the ice, leaving behind a dense, cold fog. Not really questioning what or why, Embebi charges in. As the fog swirls around her and slowly dissipates, she takes in the scene in front of her.

Krassus is dead. He lies on his back with a look of shock on his face. There is a silver dagger embedded up to the hilt in his neck. He’s still clutching what looks like a modified sunrod, something Embebi recognizes as an alchemical flare the wolf elf scouts use for signaling.

Vesnia is next to him. She is on her knees. There is blood in her hands. She appears uninjured. She looks up at Embebi. There is a rune burned onto her forehead that Embebi does not recognize.

“Who… are you?” Vesnia mumbles.

Embebi drops to her knees. Hearing a question like that, she begins instinctively searching for head wounds. “It’s okay. Calm. Nullshock. Probably rang your bell. Just give it a few.” She tries to keep her voice even. She fails.

Vesnia flinches at Embebi’s touch, but doesn’t stop her.

“I don’t know… I don’t know what happened. Where am I?” She asks as the fog slowly clears.

Embebi grits her teeth. “It’s the Potluck. And you shouldn’t have been here, but hey, that’s what boldness gets you. Just… don’t panic. Calm. There’s a lot of mad folk about. Just don’t provoke anything, quiaff?”

“Aff,” Vesnia responds, “But… why? Why are they… who am I?”

Embebi’s eyes narrow. “Headdam. No.” She says quietly. As the fog clears, a single tear rolls down her cheek.

And that’s when she snatches up her Kuthe and, with a wordless scream, drives it over and over again into Krassus’ corpse. Vesnia scoots back in shock.

Baijani slows her rush as the fog clears. She approaches slowly, her hands up, “Embebi, I’m a healer. May I see if I can help?”

Embebi whirls upward into a crouch, bloody and shattered kuthe in hand, and a maddened look upon her face. She screams, “STAY AWAY, YOU-”

“You.“ Jahnni finally finishes. All of Embebi’s motion leeches away in a second. “...bast-”, she manages, in a strained voice.

Jahnni, looming over her with a cold, but not angry, expression, looks at Baijani… then gestures to the Wolf elf.

Baijani calmly kneels in front of Vesnia, “I’m a healer. I’m not going to hurt you. Can you tell me your name?”

“No,” Vesnia states as she touches the rune on her head and winces, “No… did… did I kill someone?”

“I’m afraid you did, but I believe it was self-defense.” Baijani checks her over, and finds no injuries. Aside from the obvious. She glances at Embebi, “We’ve seen this happen before. It’s a...fail-safe, that is placed on operatives in the field. I’m afraid she won’t remember anything.” Back to Vesnia, “I’m sorry, this isn’t something I can heal. Embebi can try to help you, help things make more sense.”

Embebi gracefully moves into a sitting crouch. “...So… there is no cure, I’m waging. She’s gone.” She speaks clinically, without passion. It’s kind of creepy.

“Gone…?” Vesnia echoes.

“Not that I know…” Baijani glances around at the other elves, asking that silent question.

“It’s a magical effect,” the dread wizard Smilisca replies. “It can be canceled, or negated. Weh, the ocean would, at least temporarily, put the curse on pause, weh.” He jabs a thumb toward the docks.

Embebi doesn’t look relieved. She doesn’t look anything. “That’s gratifying to know. It seems a much preferable option to try. Otherwise, I’d have offered to Relieve her.”

Dust sighs. “The ocean might put it on hold long enough for us to find out what she wants.” The idea of using the ocean is clearly not one that he had previously considered, and his eyebrows are extra grumpy.

A shadow falls over the seated group. Bryti approaches them with Allophryne beside her. She stares down wordlessly at the wolf elf. Her eyes slowly move from the rune on Vesnia’s head to the fallen Krassus, then to Embebi. She reaches down and traces a few lines over the shocked wolf elf’s face. There is a slight glow. She growls with strain.

Allophryne puts a webbed hand on her arm. There is a slight hum. The glow brightens. Bryti places her palm over the rune and the light flares briefly. She draws her hand back. The rune is gone.

“Why…” Vesnia blinks, “Why did you…”

Without saying another word, Bryti’s hand flashes forward and grabs Vesnia’s upper arm. There is a sound like searing meat. Bryti draws her hand back to reveal a copy of the traitor’s rune branded onto Vesnia’s arm. Bryti leans down and meets her eyes.

“Wear that with pride,” she states, “Make me regret this, and I will kill you.”

She does not wait for a response. Bryti turns around and stalks back to a table. She grabs a drink and sits down heavily, facing away from the group.

“That…” Vesnia winces at the burn on her arm, “That was unexpected.”

“Aff.” Embebi deadpans. “I only counted one deaththreat.”

“Huh,” Dust says eloquently. He stares for a moment, then heads back to the drink table.

Vesnia’s eyes dart to the flare as her head clears, then to the rest of the group.

“I… remember… hells,” Vesnia hisses through her teeth, “Well, that’s one way to fuck up a mission objective.”

“I believe we did not finish that conversation,” The Esteemed says bluntly as she drives her mount forward. She is looking quite put out by all of this. “What mission was this, young wolf?”

Vesnia appears unable to meet the Esteemed’s eyes.

“It was what I could manage,” Vesnia states in a tired voice, “One last chance. My mission was to acquire the knowledge of the Tome, by any means necessary. My superiors were convinced I was taking too long. I began to realize that this objective was impossible. It’s not something I could steal, like a thief in the night.”

“I knew it was part of the crag. That… wasn’t something they wanted to hear. They told me that gaining it via infiltration and subterfuge was preferable to violence… so I found an in. Sorry, Embebi.”

Embebi Shrugs.

“It… was while learning about the crag that I realized that the crag and the Tome are inseparable. That it can’t be just taken… only destroyed by shortsightedness. Perhaps I also learned more about the Path of the crag, and how it exposes the flaws in my own.”

“But my superiors did not want to hear it. They told me that I was failing. That it was taking too long, no matter how much progress I was making. They wanted to resort to violence. It would have been a massacre. The only path I could see to complete my mission and save the crag… was to convince them to join us.”

“So… I tried. Obviously, I failed. When I managed to make contact with the Wisdom here, I was given one last chance: Infiltrate the potluck and drive a wedge between the Crag and the other elves, or I will have failed. That flare is the signal, if we were captured or killed. There are scouts watching for it. If it was lit, they were to report to the lowlands and summon a task force to come up here and seize the Tome by force.”

Vesnia looks at Embebi, “Which is why we have to go now and intercept those scouts. Some of them still trust me. Some of them like the crag, after spending so long here. The others, we can intercept. The flare wasn’t lit. There’s still time.”

“So, let’s spend it proper. Attend, stalker, conv, ready.” Several of the Aggro around her look… well, frankly bamboozled by everything, but word is passed loudly around the plaza. Aggro with bows and arrows begin to organize into a single unit.

“Will you need help?” Hunger says to Embebi, from his position by the tables.

Embebi gives him a blank look. “Dunno. How’s your aim?”

“Decent,” he says. “Terror would probably be better -- if someone can figure out where in the hells she and Breaker went -- but I’ll offer just the same.”

“Terror?” Embebi states. “Big lass, bigger hammer, voice like a cartwreck?”

Hunger nods. “Closest person we have to an Echo. Or at least, closest Fire Elf.”

“Neg,” she says casually. “This is a sneaking mission.”

She points to one of the Aggro. “Civvol, arm, stanload.” Within seconds, The Hunger finds a shortbow and quivver jammed into his arms.

“The scouts are used to seeing Embebi and I moving with Crag scouts,” Vesnia explains, “They’ll be expecting that. It would let us get closer. They’ll be expecting Krassus too, though…”

“Oh will they?” Hunger says. “Give me just a second.” He starts examining Krassus’ chopped corpse.

“I can offer aerial support,” Shadimon says, gesturing back at Dhakamari. “Good aim and good eyes, from high enough up that few can tell us from birds. Could circle wide and see if these scouts are evading.”

“Could help if one tries to… run,” Vesnia seems to have trouble with that sentence. She glances at the brand on her arm.

Embebi looks at Vesnia’s expression. She may not feel at the moment, but she can still tell. She points to another Aggro. “Attend. Tripletime. Go get the goosenets. The big ones.” Thudding feet disappear into the distance.

The Hunger pulls a series of vials from beneath his chiton. “All right,” he says. “We need a Wolf Elf temporarily. Any volunteers to sub in for Krassus?” He glances over to Leafstorm. “Barry?”

“Oh, sure, just because I’m the bard, that means I should have to be disguised as someone all the time,” Barry says.

Hunger pauses. “...I thought you liked getting into character. You’re an actor.”

“Well, yes, but that’s not the poi--” Barry starts.

“Oooh! Pick me! Pick me!” Vita says, dashing up from the stacked-high plate of food she’d been hiding behind.

“Seriously?” Barry says.

Hunger shrugs. “Whatever. Quaff these.” He hands the vials, in sequence, to Vita, who immediately drinks each one.

“Seriously?” Barry says again.

“You’ve got to keep up, Leafstorm,” Hunger replies.

First to change is Vita’s hair; it twists and shifts over her head, molding and reshaping like smoke until finally coalescing into fur and a pair of wolflike ears. Next, her bones twist, pushing her up and rewriting her face, until finally Krassus (or someone at least mostly like him) is standing where Vita had been.

Hunger steps closer, and applies a few quick touches of clay and paint around her eyes and nose. “Not my best,” he admits. “But good enough to work from a distance.”

“Right,” Vita says. “Who am I supposed to be, anyway?”

Hunger points to where the ice dome had been some seconds ago.

Embebi glances away from the spectacle back to Vesnia. “So, anything else?”

Vesnia turns to look at Embebi. There is a deep weariness there, combined with loss and confusion. Vesnia doesn’t answer for a couple seconds. Suddenly, she lunges forward… and kisses Embebi right on her stupid little nose.

Vesnia stands.

“Let’s go.”

Embebi just kind of stares blankly, then shrugs. Standing, she gestures to the assembled Aggro. “Stalkers, let’s gaaaagghg-”

She grits her teeth as several seconds worth of built up emotion slam into her neocortex at full speed. Her face contorts slightly, but ultimately settles on a wide grin. That gets wider. And wider. And more… predatory.

“Stalkers. We HUNT.”

There is a surprising absence of noise as several dozen Aggro warriors file out of the Plaza, Vesnia and Vita carried along in their wake.

At the back of the Plaza, a single Crag goes largely unmoved by the events closer to the center. Peering at and through the hole left by Echo’s maddened charge, Slabal sighs quietly.

Turning to the Fury, she gives the sorceress a level expression.

“When Lowlanders meet… Is it always like this?”

“It’s really not,” Fury says, glancing between Slabal and Lucinia behind her. “They can be kind of… dramatic… but this is new. I promise. There usually isn’t any fighting. Usually.”

Slabal pauses. “In my very first travel into the Lowlands, I witnessed a woman nearly being decapitated, an Aggro challenge, and… Hrm. No third thing. Oh well. Are you certain your appraisal is accurate?”

“I am also concerned,” Lucinia says quietly, plucking at her arm.

“An abduction,” Slabal states. “That was the third thing. It seemed the least dramatic.”

“Two of those weren’t violent,” Fury protests. “And the third… well okay, Tsun did kind of challenge Ehra, but it’s not like that wasn’t a forgone conclusion… or like she died… Look, this isn’t normal, I swear!”

Slabal gazes at her for a moment, and then back to the ruin that is visible through the still slowly collapsing wall. She blinks a couple times.

“I do as well, on occasion. This seems appropriate. Shit.”

“My concern has only increased,” Lucinia states.

“...Fine. Then I’ll join you,” Fury says, ignoring Lucinia. “Crap. Cal’s… something. Seven damnations.”

Slabal looks back over at Fury. Her eyebrow raises very slightly. She then looks back.

“...Needs work.”

-FIN-

Once again, thank you everyone for your continued enthusiasm in keeping this game going! It has grown into something far better than I ever could have hoped!

Once again, everyone gets one level up to distribute to a non-central leader of their choice.

Vesnia and Embebi's mission is a success. They are able to capture the remaining scouts before they get the message out of Vesnia's treachery. A few of them even decide to join her. The future is uncertain as is what to do with both them and Vesnia, but for now she seems to be willing to join the Crag.

The Crag have gained the Aspect Traitor's Band, representing Vensia and the scouts loyal to her.

First, though, the Athlon… and some bits and pieces.

Bits and Pieces

Open Athlon I